


Down Once More

by Loreyulia



Category: Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, but I'll give you fluff too, crossover fic, general violence, lots of creative license, slowburn romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loreyulia/pseuds/Loreyulia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was Sherlock, resident of London Below and one of three with a particular set of powers over Fate. Then there was John, ex-army doctor, weary and bored of his life- who ends up an unfortunate bystander in the attack of a strange man. Now, he belongs to the Underside, with no idea on how to go about getting his old life back. Luckily for him, the man he had tried to save just so happens to be an ancient being of London Below, and a genius as well. As long as he promises Sherlock to be his body guard on their way to find the Marquis de Carabas, then the man will take him to meet the lady Door, and her companion Richard in hopes that they can help him find a way to return Above. </p><p>But things aren't going to be that easy, not when a mysterious organization simply known as The Web is after Sherlock, and ultimately all three Holmes brothers. John just hopes he can make it home all in one piece, Sherlock just wants the man to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. World's Collide

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Neverwhere: those rights belong to the respective owners. 

A/N: Hello! Welcome to my newest project, a cross over between BBC's Sherlock and Neil Gaiman's wonderful novel Neverwhere. There will also be a lot of original ideas of mine added in, such as the mysterious organization known as The Web, and the powers of the three Holmes brother's. I won't spoil too much now, but if you do have some confusion in parts, I promise to clear up stuff in the story as soon as I can. Please enjoy, and drop a review if you like what you read. Cheers! 

Down Once More 

Chapter One: World's Collide 

Wind's in the East, mist comin' in  
Like some thin' is brewin' and 'bout  
to begin  
Can't put me finger on what lies in  
store  
But I feel what's to happen all  
happened before. 

"I 'eard they was after ya', Mister 'olmes– y'know, The Web." 

The man's scratchy, mothball voice echoed along the wet walls even as he whispered to the whip thin shadow that was cast by ruddy candlelight; flickering and dancing where the walls oozed some thing green, and slimy. There was a faint drip-drip-drop sound in the distance– broken pipes leaking into the quagmire of the sewers. 

"Do you think they know where I am?" 

His voice, deep and sonorous, held a hint of desperation– barely discernable unless you knew him as well as Wiggins did. The man in question shrugged, his deep-set eyes tracing the frantic dance of his employer's shadow as he paced through the water around their ankles; sloshing and rippling it just enough to make a whisper of sound. 

"I'm not sure, sir... but, if'n I was you, I'd not be stayin' in one place fer too long. Gets dangerous." 

The light sputtered and wavered on the brink of existence, as the shadow stilled. He emitted a weary sigh, fingers idly caressing some thing in the depths of his coat pocket. After a beat of silence, the shadow resumed its frantic movement while he replied, 

"Then I shan't dally here much longer..." he drew in a sharp breath and added begrudgingly, "and thank you, for informing me. You must have given up some thing quite valuable, to gain information like that." 

Wiggins smiled sheepishly, ducking his head and scratching idly at a dry spot behind his ear. "Twas merely my duty, sir– tis always an honour to serve." He looked up, eager for his Master's praise— only to find he was now quite alone. 

— 

John Watson vacantly stared out into the black abyss; watched as the lights burst into life and died just as quickly– like falling stars. He sat amongst the morning crowd on the Tube train that would spit him out a few blocks away from St. Bart's, and he pondered briefly on how his life had become so dull. 

He wondered if it all began when he was shot, and then honourably discharged– discarded back out into a life that no longer suited him... or, perhaps, his life had always been this dull, and he was too blind to see it. In the end, the why and how did not matter. What mattered, was the empty feeling in his bones and the deep, overwhelming melancholy that had pervaded his very being– right down to the roots of his soul. 

The tube slowly came to a halt, and the passengers all began milling themselves out into the world once more. John sighed, using his cane to stand, and hobbled his way after them– the static voice that intoned, "Mind the gap," fading away while he integrated himself back into the masses. 

— 

"I see we've got a fresh one today, Molly." John smiled as he unsteadily made his way over to the young woman who jotted down her thoughts onto her ever present notebook and clipboard. She looked up after a moment, and her face brightened when she caught sight of John. 

"He came in only a few minutes ago. Name's Michael Harvey, age 33– apparently he's a victim in that serial killer case that Greg is working on... he's supposed to stop by later, once I determine cause of death and the time." Molly blushed, and shyly toyed with the pen in her hand. 

"Oh Molly," John sighed fondly and gave the young woman a knowing look, "you know Lestrade is separating from his wife right? You should do some thing about that age old puppy crush, and ask him out for coffee some time– heaven knows, he could be just as interested in you, as you are in him." 

Molly's blush darkened and she hid her face behind her clipboard to conceal it as she mumbled, "It's not decent... you know, they still could work things out; and I don't want to be the 'other woman' in the picture. 'Sides, I doubt Greg even see's me like that." With that soft, and rather sad admission, she returned her attention back to the cold, lifeless body set out on the examination table. 

"I... I know you're only trying to help me find happiness John– and I really appreciate it." Molly exclaimed after a few moments of silence, as she catalogued the information she gleaned from examining the corpse. "But, you should focus on yourself more John– find some one or some thing that makes you happy." 

Some thing in John's expression tightened briefly, before he replaced it with an empty smile– that didn't quite reach his eyes, and made his statement of, "I am happy," sound incredibly hollow. 

A no-nonsense look in place, Molly replied, "Don't think I haven't noticed the apathy in your eyes– the blankness of your smiles. No matter how you try to brush it off, reassure me that every thing is fine, I know it's really not. You're far from happy John, even if you pretend otherwise." She had placed one of her slender hands upon John's shoulder, and squeezed just once; a gentle, barely there touch. 

John's throat tightened uncomfortably at her concern, and he blinked the tears that threatened to spill, away. He breathed deep, and placed his hand over Molly's. "Don't worry about me," he finally replied, voice soft and a little defeated. 

She pursed her lips, obviously holding herself back from arguing the point further, and merely nodded; letting the matter drop for now, so they could focus on the task at hand. 

— 

"Thanks for gettin' this done so quickly, Molly." 

Greg Lestrade, detective inspector down at Scotland Yard, patted the young morgue attendant on the back; his smile lop-sided and slightly roguish. John could practically feel Molly melting at that... 

"U-um... i-it wasn't a problem," she mumbled, casting her big, brown eyes to the floor. 

Their chemistry was palpable, and it took almost all of John's military discipline, to keep his nose out of it. If he had things his way, he would have slapped the two upside the head, and ordered them to go grab coffee and talk. He kept his mouth tightly shut though, and pretended to be scarce as he sewed up Michael Harvey's chest after the autopsy. 

Molly and Lestrade continued to chat about tox reports, and tissue damage– the two huddled together almost intimately. The adoring look in Greg's coffee hued gaze did not go unnoticed by John Watson. It made him smile, to see two of his dearest friends falling in love. 

As was usual these days, however, the smile disappeared far too quickly. The little voice that hated John, whispered words that dripped with ugly, black pitch in his head. "Look at that– they're falling for each other. Where does that leave you, then? If they start dating, they won't have any time for you... you'll be all alone again, and that thought terrifies you– doesn't it?" 

John did not realize how much his fingers had started shaking; the scalpel slipping, and slicing open his palm. "Buggering fuck," he swore, trying to keep his voice down so as not to bother his friends– especially now that they seemed to be conversing about some thing other than corpses for once. The bright red line trailed down to his wrist, and pooled around the rubber edge of his latex glove. John watched it, numb and strangely fascinated as the sounds of wounded men screaming, echoed through his head. 

"Oh John, does it hurt?" Molly's worried and urgent tone brought him back from the hell inside his mind. John blinked surreptitiously for a few seconds, before his attention turned to his friend's– troubled expressions on both their faces. 

"I'm... I'm fine. I'll just go bandage this up now," he tried not to wince at the twinge of pain that set fire to his nerves, and the listlessness of his own voice. John smiled thinly when the anxious lines in Molly's and Greg's faces did not abate; before he turned, and made his way to the closest medical kit to bandage up his wound. 

— 

He sucked in giant lung fulls of air while he ran– ardently trying to ignore the painful clenching in his chest as his body struggled to obtain more oxygen. Blood trickled down from the gash above his right eyebrow, and it stung some thing fierce as it dribbled into his eye. His worn, leather shoes made dull squelching noises as he waded through the foul, slimy sewage amassed before a drain pipe. 

"C'mon mister 'olmes, I know you must be tired by now. Why don't ye let me take care 'o ya'..." 

"Don't antagonize him Hope, only the spider is permitted to play with flies." 

His pursuers laughed at their little joke, the sound bouncing off the walls to echo and layer over itself until it was an unbearable jumble of noise. It made his blood run cold, especially once he realized that he had hit a dead end. 

He pressed his shaking frame against the wall, trying to make himself blend into the darkness and shadows. The rattling wheeze of his own breathing would not still, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood in an effort to cage in the sound. His eyes clenched shut, and he strained his ears to hear even the faintest whisper of sound; it was hard though, to hear anything over his pulse pounding in his ears. 

Close by— too close, he could hear the male, Hope the woman had called him, start humming to himself. He recognized the tune, the one about a spider and a water spout; a nursery rhyme for the children who lived Above. 

With a burst of adrenaline, his eyes opened wildly– and that's when he saw them, the metal rungs that made a make shift ladder. His gaze followed it, all the way to the top and to what he knew lay beyond. He cursed under his breath at his ill luck, but launched himself at the ladder none-the-less. In the end, there was nothing for it, not when his only choice was to go up. 

— 

The damp, frigid air settled uncomfortably in John's chest that evening. After he had witlessly sliced his hand open, Molly had refused to let him keep working until he went to go stitch it up properly. In the end he only had to use a few butterfly stitches and some bandage gauze to stop the bleeding, but Molly deemed him ill enough to go home, and get some rest. He was indignant at first, until he caught sight of his pale, pinched pallor in the overhead mirror. 

The bags under his eyes were rather heavy, and his whole demeanor seemed wane; like a gust of too-strong air could knock him to pieces. With a brief embrace for both, and shaky goodbye's, John left Molly and Greg to their own devices, and decided to go grab a bite to eat. 

After he finished his spaghetti at Angelo's, John went for a walk through the empty London streets; cane always at his side to help guide him along. The nasty weather cast a sluggish grey hue over everything, and it was why– John supposed– that he was the only one out at this late hour. 

The wet chill was starting to make his left shoulder ache, and he grimaced at how weak his body had become after the war. In fact, John had half a mind to quit being stubborn, and board the nearest tube train home— when the distressed sound of a man shouting, caught his attention. He looked around frantically for the source of the noise– and then, through the hazy fog that had begun to set in he saw a tall, lean figure dash unsteadily through the line of trees in the nearby park; two silhouettes following close behind. 

He stood rooted to his spot on the pavement for a moment, his hot blooded and courageous side warring with the dark voice that murmured, "What do you think you could do, hm? You're broken... you're not worth what you once were..." 

John cursed, and shoved those thoughts aside as he started limping as fast as he could toward the man who might very well be in trouble. Another deep, panicked cry rang out, making John break out into a slow run. 

The moment he burst forth through the line of hedges and trees, John witnessed the rather tall man getting a tire iron smashed into his knee. The man roared in absolute agony, before he fell to his knees, and then rolled out of the way as the short, middle aged assailant swung the tire iron at his head. 

"Be careful Hope, we want him alive, remember?" A soft, accented voice hissed nearby, drawing John's attention to the other attacker. She had not moved yet to hurt the young man, but the Asian woman did have what looked to be a dagger, in her hand. 

"I'm just 'avin a bit 'o fun," the man replied, swinging his weapon toward his prey with a manic gleam in his eyes; only to miss again, because the young man rolled to the side just in time. " 'old still ya' wee bugger, I needs to brain ya'!" 

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" John screamed, finally alerting the three to his presence. He was sprinting forward now, cane in his hand and ready to be used to defend himself if necessary. 

The man and the woman shared a confused glance. "He notices us..." the woman finally murmured to her partner, and he gave John an intensely puzzled frown. 

"DON'T!" The desperate, and shouted plea stopped John in his tracks, and he looked over at the young man; confused and panting. "Please... just turn around, and go home– I promise, you'll forget that you ever witnessed this." 

The man that the Asian woman had called 'Hope' sneered, grabbing his prey by his dark, greasy curls and tugged sharply. "Ye should listen to 'im, one who resides Above— unless ya' fancy yerself a life of pain and misery." 

"Let him go!" John snarled, and stepped forward; menacingly holding his cane like he would a sword. His focus shifted between the Asian woman garbed all in black, to the shabby man who looked like a penniless cabbie– and it finally rested on a young, pale face; the man's brightly colored eyes silently willing John to just run away. His own eyes flicked back to Hope and his lip curled back into a fearsome sneer as he growled out once more, " I said, let. Him. GO!" 

Hope barked out a laugh, and nodded to his partner. "Go ahead Shan, kill 'im." Quick as a flash, and with a sadistic smile twisting her lipsticked mouth, the woman named Shan slashed out with her jade handled dagger. 

Surprise filled her eyes, when instead of sinking into warm, yielding flesh– her knife blade scraped along the metal of John's cane. She lashed out again, only to receive the same result, and a sharp smack from the end of the cane right in her side. Shan's smile fell into a pained grimace as she spat out, "Looks like the Upworlder has good reflexes." 

John's face screwed up in confusion, her words not quite sitting right with him. He side stepped an arcing slash meant to cut his side open, and then back pedaled when she pressed her advantage. The fleeting impression of 'how the hell did I get myself into this?' rattled around in his head, but he did not have the time to really think on that, when he was fighting for his and a stranger's lives. 

"Ye lil' prick!!!" John heard Hope roar, and he narrowly missed getting stabbed in the throat, when he looked over his shoulder to see the young man punch his attacker in the face– breaking his nose it seemed, on account of all the blood. 

Shan looked over as well, and John took the woman's moment of weakness to his advantage by bringing his cane down hard enough against her wrist to possibly break it. She howled in pain, dropping her jade-handled dagger out of reflex— and John instantly dove for it. 

However incapacitated she seemed, Shan was hot on John's heels, diving after her weapon as well; which led them into an all out grapple in the wet grass, and mud. They rolled, kicked and even bit to gain the upper hand– fingers constantly scrabbling for the dagger's handle. After what seemed like an eternity, John's numb fingers finally closed around the cold handle, and he lashed out with abandon; slicing a nice, clean gash against the woman's cheek. 

John scrambled up onto his feet, righting himself quickly and holding the dagger out in case she tried to come at him again, regardless of being unarmed now. Her fingers curled against her cheek, the dark red blood staining her pale skin as she shook with rage. 

He allowed himself to look over and see how the young man was faring, and his eyes widened in horror. Before he could scream, or do any thing really, Hope swung the tire iron at his head. 

John fell to the ground, his eye sight going fuzzy and the blood rushing through his ears too loud to hear over. The pain radiating through his skull was unbearable– unlike anything he had ever felt before, and he had been shot in the shoulder. 

While his vision swam, and his head throbbed, John blearily focused on the face loomed above his. Eyes that shifted from blue, to green and held hints of gold, studied him with unreserved pity. "I'm sorry," the man murmured, his hand pulling some thing from the depths of his navy blue coat pocket. 

Before he succumbed to oblivion, John Watson registered cold fingers prying the dagger from his hand and then, there was nothing. 

~T.B.C.~ 

E/N: well, there's chapter one. I really hope you all enjoyed my take on things. I can't really say too much without spoiling stuff, so ttfn! 

Story Notes: 

–The excerpt at the beginning is from the movie Mary Poppins (though admittedly after watching Saving Mr. Banks, I always hear it in Colin Farell's beautiful voice...). I feel like it sets the tone perfectly, for what I have planned for this story. Plus, Neil Gaiman always puts excerpts of poetry or a quote before his novels, and I thought it would set the tone nicely in that regard as well. 

– John works at Bart's in the morgue because I wanted him to be friends with Molly and Greg; but without Sherlock living in London Above, they normally would have never met. I like to think with his medical knowledge, John would make a great Coroner. 

– Jeffrey Hope and General Shan are our two antagonists who work for the organization known as, 'The Web.'


	2. London Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes in a mysterious room, inhabited by a couple of people who might very well be insane in his personal opinion. A London Below indeed...

Down Once More 

Chapter 2: London Below 

There was darkness, quiet and absolute. It covered John in its all encompassing blanket; a shroud woven of blissful ignorance and nothingness. Through the dark haze, however; a small pin-prick of golden light shone through– like a solitary star, struggling to be seen against the murky, indigo sky.

A woman's voice, hushed in a gentle murmur, caressed his senses; tugging him further toward the light. The more he drug himself out of the confusing quagmire of unconsciousness, the more he became aware of the dull throbbing pain that bounced around his skull. 

"—lock, what have you got yourself into this time? It's all well and good, going around and attracting all sorts of trouble for yourself, but to involve one of the Upworlder's! Poor lad... frightful head wound that is. Though, I'm sure once he wakes, he'll wish he hadn't." The woman's warm, slightly stern voice held notes of unmistakable remorse at the end– John still not fully able to comprehend where he was, who he was with, or why his head hurt so damn much. 

Another voice responded, full of gravel and grit, and obviously incensed. "I had no other choice! If I had left him there, they would have killed him– and I... I could not bring myself to abandon him to that fate, even if it would have proven far kinder to do so." 

John could barely follow the course of the whispered conversation– even though he desperately tried to tie the threads together into a cohesive tapestry of thought, and reason. With a pained groan, he jerked his head up, only to realize too late how stupid that decision had been. His vision swam when he opened his eyes, and the pounding pressure in his head only intensified– he was almost positive he was going to be sick... 

"Oh dear, he looks pale as death!" The woman exclaimed in what John could only describe as caring exasperation. His skewed eyesight made it seem like she was teetering toward him in some oddly performed sort of dance, and John chuckled to himself at the absurdity of it all. "Sherlock," she trailed off, apparent concern lacing her tone. "How hard did that dastard hit the poor sod? He seems a bit knoddy in the head..." 

John's focus finally aligned itself, and he squinted up at the old woman hovering above him. Her hair was shortly cropped, and ashy brown. She had pale skin, with freckles and wrinkles aplenty dotting her flesh like lines across a tube map. Warm, sepia eyes studied him, and her lips wavered some where between a smile and some thing else decidedly sad. 

"Where– w-where am I?" John questioned haltingly— the words difficult to grasp and intone. It was rather hard to speak, when thoughts melted away like snowflakes upon warm skin. 

Gentle fingers prodded at the side of his head, and with a sharp hiss of pain, John jerked away from the feather light touch. "Don't worry dear," the old lady crooned, too much sadness and regret gnawing away at the warmth in her gaze. "Just stay still, and I'll go fetch some thing for that nasty bump you've got there." John nodded absently, trying to remember if she had answered his question or not. She smiled shakily, and tottered off God knows where. 

John wanted to close his eyes, and go back to sleep; maybe wake up in his single bed, shaken from another nightmare that had felt far too real... 

The light rumble of a man clearing his throat shattered what little illusion of normalcy he had tried to conjure. John's attention was instantly pulled to the source of the noise. He wished, too late, that he would not have looked. 

With out a doubt, the younger man leaning casually against the door frame that seemed to lead into a kitchen, was the same one he had met in the park. 

He was tall, and lean; with alabaster skin, that seemed to glow in the murky light. The man's face was sharp, and almost alien in its ethereal uniqueness. Cheekbones sculpted keenly, of the finest milky marble– lips so perfectly crafted, they could have belonged to Eros himself. He had thick, riotous curls that, beneath all the grease and grime, were the rich shade of dark chocolate. However, John recalled that the stranger's eyes were his most enchanting feature of all; ever changing eyes, that had captured a tropical sea within their crystalline depths. 

All-in-all, the man was exquisite– and it made John feel intensely uncomfortable. Men like himself, did not simply associate with Greek Gods come to life on a regular basis. 

"I told you to run, you know... you really should have listened." The man's deep, silky voice startled him after so many minutes spent in silence, as they studied one another. John cradled his heavy head upon one open palm, and gave the stranger a wry smile. 

" 's alright, I've suffered through far worse than this." John absentmindedly touched his left shoulder, right over the spider-web of scar tissue he knew that lay beneath the bulky layers of his clothing. The man's gaze followed his movement, and he frowned; an expression that John could not name, flitting across his aristocratic face. 

He pushed off of the door frame, and strode over to John– all elegantly long limbs, and cat-like grace. John was rather startled though, when the man knelt down before his prone position on the couch; a calloused thumb rubbing briefly below his right eye. The man seemed to study his features curiously for a moment– that familiar look of pity haunting his gaze. "I really do wish you would have run..." the words were whispered now, in a kind of tone one would expect from a person offering their condolences at a funeral. 

John's temper was dangerously spiking toward the realm of 'not good'. "Why the hell do you keep saying that? It's not like they mortally wounded me or anything– I should be fine, if I take it easy for a few days." 

Quick as a whip, and tone flat now the man replied, "I'm afraid you do not have that kind of luxury any longer, Upworlder." 

That phrase... John thought to himself, his brow knitting itself together as he racked his muddled mind– he had heard it before. "That... that Asian woman, Shan was it? She called me that as well... what does it mean? Why am I being treated as if... as if I died or some thing?" 

The man's cyan eyes roved back and forth, and he bit his plump lower lip harshly; until the blood drained, and the healthy pink color dissolved into a pasty white. He seemed to wage a war with himself, and John realized then, that maybe he had landed himself some where far out of his depth. "Oh God," John murmured, "please tell me I didn't get involved in some thing I shouldn't..." 

"I'm afraid to inform you, that you have– though I'm sure what I am about to tell you, is a truth far beyond the realm of possibility that you once perceived." The man paused, seemed to wait for John to butt in with questions or accusations– when he merely nodded, indicating the stranger to continue, he smiled slightly to himself. 

The man cocked his head to the side, and seemed to contemplate his words, before he spoke. "Have you ever walked the London streets, minding your own businesses, thinking about that homeless person you just passed and how, maybe, you should have given them some thing? So, you turn around, loose change at the ready– only to find that they are no where to be seen. You probably stand there for a few moments, looking foolish as you crane your neck around in search of the poor soul in need of your pocket change; but then you shrug, and move on with your day– and you don't think on it again, until the next time." 

 

"Well, um yeah–" John replied, looking rather confused. "I mean, haven't we all? Still, I fail to see what this has to do with me..." 

"Oh, it has every thing to do with you," the stranger exclaimed, an odd and excited sort of fire rippling through his intense gaze. "You see, these are the people who have fallen through the cracks– the forgotten. They are the residents of a London that no one remembers, a London Below. 

"Beneath the city, in the sewers and abandoned railways– in the deep, dark crevices of this metropolis; there exists another world. A world where impossible and fantastical things are the norm, where ancient civilizations co-mingle with the modern age. A world, that you now belong to." 

John regarded the stranger, taking in the serious angles of his face– the diamond hardness of his unwavering gaze. He wanted so desperately to believe that this man wasn't crazy, or being an utter cock by teasing him with some outlandish story... but, what he had just said, about another world existing below London— why, it was complete bollocks! 

"Look," he gave the man a no-nonsense scowl, "if this is some clotheads idea of a joke, I will admit, it's in poor taste. Did Greg put you up to this, or was it Mike?" 

The man sighed, his lips pursing in agitation as he looked away. "Fine," he snapped at John, "you can choose not to believe me. Whole lot of good it will do you, once you try to make your way back home. If you even make it that far, and I seriously doubt you will, there will be nothing waiting for you. The moment you chose to help me when those two attacked, you sealed your fate. 

"Now, you belong to the Underside– you no longer exist in the world Above. You can obviously decide not to believe me, but right now I am all you have; and I for one, intend to find a way to fix this." 

"Stop this," John barked out, glowering at the man kneeled before him. "This is going too far– I don't know what's going on, or why you won't just give up this silly charade; but I've had enough. Now, you're going to tell me who you are, and why you're doing this– or so help me God, I will hurt you..." 

The stranger scoffed at John, a sneer curling at the edge of his mouth. "I would really like to see you try, Upworlder." He stood then, and peered down at John with an expression filled with flinty ice, and contempt. "I will give you fair warning though, even among those who reside Below, I am old beyond measure– I have seen hundred's of your life times, and I've spent my time learning all I can about both our worlds. And some of that knowledge includes how to kill some one, merely by pinching them in the right place." 

They were at an impasse, a stale mate laden with petulant scowls and intense glaring. "Oh for pity's sake," the gentle, admonishing tone came from the older woman who had tittered around John only minutes before. "Sherlock, the poor lad's had quite the scare– leave him be for now, and we'll get this all sorted as soon as we take care of that nasty bump, and have had a spot of tea." She came tottering back into the room, carrying a stone basin, a white linen, and a clay pot. 

It was then John really observed his unwitting hostess, really observed her that is– and saw what she was wearing. Her petite frame was draped in a deep plum colored chiton that fell in graceful folds down to her ankles. A pair of sensible black heels and sheer stockings adorned her lower half– the mixture of ancient and modern so absurd that it was charming. She had minimal make up on, and only a few adornments. A pair of pearl drop earrings, golden bangles on one arm, and a white oleander fastened at her shoulder, to keep the chiton in place. 

"Don't worry dearie," she hummed, setting the stone basin at John's feet with some difficulty, "I'll get you all patched up in a jiffy." She sat down on the couch next to him, and soaked the linen in the water; and he watched as the steam curled upward indicating the water to be warm. With a motherly tenderness, she pressed the wet cloth to John's head, and slowly cleaned away the caked on blood that had dried there. 

It stung a bit, and he fought the urge to pull away. The woman carried on though, muttering to herself about irresponsible behaviour and repercussions; and she shot the lanky man at her side a stern scowl. John tried to ignore the fact that the insufferable stranger actually looked sheepish when the woman lectured him with all the authority of a beloved mother. "Um– that's an interesting pendant you have." He exclaimed, not really knowing what else to say after every thing. 

"Oh, this old thing? I've had it for years– got it at a Floating Market when I was younger. The woman who sold it to me had me pay with my long, beautiful tresses of hair– never have been able to grow it back... I'm quite sure she actually came from over The Wall, but that's another story entirely." 

"Ah, right..." John mumbled, none of the woman's words making any sense to him what so ever. After that, there was silence as the woman wiped up the last of the blood. She then dipped her fingers into the clay pot, and brought them back out; coated in a viscous honey colored paste. Before John could ask her what the hell it was, she smoothed the mixture softly over his head wound. 

The relief he felt was almost instantaneous! A cool, tingling sensation spread across his skin– a refreshing balm that soothed the ache. "There," she said after she was done, "you'll be right as rain in no time. Earl Grey or Peppermint?" She stood, gathering all her things and smiled warmly at John. 

"Ah, erm– Earl Grey?" She had a brusqueness to her that left John in a tizzy. 

The woman nodded, and made her way toward the kitchen– calling over her shoulder before she could pop out of sight, "And dearie, you can call me Mrs. Hudson– every one else seems to at any rate." 

John just nodded weakly in return, all of the excitement and turmoil of the last few hours, draining him. The strange man at his side followed Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen after a few awkward moments spent in silence; and shortly after, John could catch smatterings of a whispered conversation between them. He tuned most of it out, only catching snitbits; some thing about a Door and how to find it. 

Being all alone in the room gave him some time, and some thing to do– so he studied it with an ambivalent eye. The lighting in the place was murky at best; candles lit, and gas lamps sputtering to hang onto life interspersed through out the room. A few feet away from the couch that John still occupied, an old sort of coffee table sat; covered with yellowed news papers faded from age–the ink practically smudged away on some. Battered, dog eared novels, and the occasional empty tea cup that had gathered a fine layer of dust. 

There were an obscene amount of bookshelves, crammed to about bursting with novels, encyclopedias, any manner of informational guides it seemed. Across the way sat two armchairs. One a washed out red, that was plush looking for how ancient it seemed, and the other a slate blue; very sheik and modern. Just beyond the two arm chairs, a crackling fire danced behind a cast iron grate, the mantle above a deep chocolate brown wood. All sorts of odd knick-knacks rested on the mantle, a veritable treasure trove of bizarre possessions; right down to the the jewel encrusted dagger that was stabbed into the surface what looked like in repeated fashions and different locations, on account of all the random gouges in the wood. 

Parallel to the armchairs, there was a shabby dining set that seated four– with only three chairs around it, and a work desk was shoe-horned in some where behind. A cow skull hung up on the wall above the desk, the bone tarnished a macabre brown color from age; and oddly enough, there were a big pair of 80's style head phones slung over the top of the skulls cranium. To the left, a full length window stretched upwards– giving view to total, pitch black nothingness. It was, quite honestly the most normal, out of place thing in the entire room. 

Even more strange than the wallpaper bedecking the walls, all of varied patterns and styles, the weathering speaking of different eras when it had been applied. The lone window was adorned with the drabbest, most boring curtains John had ever seen– but the ominous blackness that creeped behind the panes of glass terrified him. Simply put, it unnerved him because it was so unnatural. 

"Here we are," Mrs. Hudson said, setting a tarnished silver tray upon the newspapers on the coffee table. Three tea cups and saucers, a tea pot, and a bowl of sugar were placed carefully upon the tray. "Sorry there isn't any cream– rather rare to come by stuff like that down here, even for us." 

"No– um, no it's fine really." John quickly supplied, not wanting the woman to feel bad, especially after all the kindness, and hospitality she had already given him. His attention was pulled away from her, however; by the lanky stranger dragging the red chair over to the table– and then, quite abruptly he moved over to where John was, and shoved his outstretched legs off of the couch, and sat beside him. 

The man, completely ignorant of his rather rude behaviour, started spooning sugar into one of the tea cups; the faint clinking of a spoon knocking against china as he stirred his tea, ringing in the silence. "Might as well sit down Mrs. Hudson, after all the trouble of me moving that here for you. This conversation will most likely take quite some time, and I shall need your assistance translating what I'll have to say in terms that this narrow minded Upworlder might understand." 

Offended, John opened his mouth to retort quite loudly; but Mrs. Hudson beat him to it. "Sherlock Holmes, you watch your tongue! You were just as responsible for getting the lad mixed up in all this, as he was. I don't want to hear you speak like that to him again, do you hear me?" 

Sherlock, John finally gathered, was the man's name– and an odd name it was, but he chose not to dwell too much on that. He dwelled instead, upon how the mans teeth sunk into his pillowy bottom lip– biting back a response, and merely grunted while looking away shamefully. Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock one last stern scowl, before her face brightened as she turned her attention to John. "Make sure to drink your tea, before it goes cold dear." 

And so, John did just that. 

– 

The three of them had sat in silence for a while, each one deep in their own contemplations, and tea. Mrs. Hudson was the first to break the metaphorical ice. "So, before we begin with this whole mess– might I ask you your name, dear?" 

"Um, yeah... of course," John blinked owlishly, because he had entangled himself so deep in thought, and with watching the wispy tendrils of steam curl through intricate waltzes; he almost forgot where he was. "John– John Watson, if you wanted to know in full." 

"That's a lovely name," Mrs. Hudson beamed, and Sherlock snorted derisively; seeming to grow tired of niceties. He was sprawled out quite sinuously, his long midnight colored coat discarded at some point; leaving him in a royal purple shirt, that had ruffled lace edging his throat and wrist cuffs. His lanky legs were covered in dark leather breeches, the kind you might find on some swashbuckling pirate of yore, but his shoes looked like plain, black square toed loafers. So, John's face screwed up in thought; Belstaff, Edwardian style shirt, pirate trousers, and average modern day gentleman shoes... either these two people were eccentric stage actors, or they were off their heads. He seriously hoped it was the former... 

After they were all acquainted, Mrs. Hudson began in a calm, motherly fashion to tell John just how royally buggered he was. She spoke of how the inhabitants of London Below co-habitated this city with the one's who lived Above. How their two world's touched, and mingled, but stayed separate. That whenever one of the Upworlder's became aware of one of them, usually they forgot about it within mere minutes; but, on rare occasions they would get drawn in too deep– and that's when they fell through the cracks, becoming one with the Underside. 

She talked about it all with such sincerity, that it almost made John believe her. That there really was a fantastical realm lurking below the world he knew so intimately. In the end though, he shook his head and made it clear that he did not buy into this ludicrous tale; no matter how well crafted it was. 

Mrs. Hudson gazed at him with absolute pity in her eyes, but nodded and left it at that; getting up with a bit of difficulty, and made her way towards a door not far from the right side of the couch. "I'll leave you to think it over, dear. Get some rest, you'll need it for the days to come." With that, she left, making her way down a set of stairs it sounded like, and into another room; a door shutting softly in the distance. 

Sherlock sat and stared at him for quite some time after she left; his cyan eyes observing John with an excruciating amount of intensity. Then, it seemed like he had found exactly what he was looking for in the lines of John's weary features; for he stood abruptly and announced, "Sooner or later you will believe. For now, I leave you to your ignorance." 

He brushed about after that, blowing out candles and shutting off the gas lamps; until only the fire that writhed behind cast iron bars illuminated the room. Sherlock gave John one last resigned sort of grimace, before he disappeared into his own room most likely. 

It left John, cold and alone on a stranger's couch, in a room with a window that looked out onto nothing; and for the first time since he was a young boy, he prayed. He prayed that when he awoke, he would be home– and as boring as it was, and utterly devoid of real happiness– he would never take his life for granted again. 

E/N: 

Mrs. Hudson's Oleandar pendant: if you're a Neil Gaiman fan, then you might recognize this subtle nod to Stardust. I find it rather plausible that these worlds could exist in the same universe, so I took some more creative license. 

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! See you all soon. :)


	3. We Have an Accord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock hash things out some more, and finally come to understand one another. All that's left, is to begin their journey...

Down Once More   
Chapter Three: We have an Accord

A voice echoed all around, hushed to a whisper; like wind swaying the leaves of a tree. I strained my ears to listen, but no matter how hard I tried, the voice kept growing fainter and fainter... until it was naught but a half remembered dream. I went to move, to run after the retreating voice, but my legs would not heed me. Paralyzed, I looked around frantically; fear slowly creeping in. 

All around me, shadows writhed and twisted into grotesque shapes; separated only by a thin pane of glass. Beyond the realm of me, and the other side, a silvery thread began to spin. It twirled and contorted, weaving into an iridescent tapestry. I began to realize, with increasing horror, that it was a web... and where webs resided, spiders were sure to follow. 

The shadows began to convulse, dancing with an increasing frenzy behind the window. Then, the scuttling sound of too many legs bled through. A scream died in my throat, refusing to bubble past the terror already lodged there. My legs jerked, the muscles spasming in confusion as my fight or flight reflexes were forced to be ignored. No matter how I tried, I could not move! 

The scuffling, clacking noises intensified; like a thousand spiders where all charging toward me at once. It crescendoed and pulsed, a mad chant made of nightmares and darkness. At the zenith of sound, eight beady eyes appeared, black and oily through the window. They blinked, one by one; and opened to reveal flat, obsidian orbs– all gazing hungrily at me. 

The giant spider opened its great, gaping maw; venom dripping from its fangs as it rushed forward. I was frozen in fear, as the mighty fiend slammed its body against the window. The glass shattered. Diamond shards scattered to the air, and the shadows rushed in. 

Before I could scream, the darkness took me— 

John awoke with a violent shout, his heart hammering hard in his chest, his breathing wild, and frantic. He sat up, shaking and dimly aware that his clammy skin was drenched in sweat. As the blood-rush in his ears died down slowly, John picked out a trembling cry piercing the air. The wobbling vibrato of bow gliding over strings preluded the deep, aching pain the Violin expressed. It was an oddly old sort of melody, like a song that had been passed down through centuries of musical ingenuity. 

With a start, John realized his lap was covered by the thick, wool Belstaff Sherlock had discarded earlier; a makeshift blanket to ward off the chill. The gesture was oddly touching, coming from a man who had brushed him aside with cool indifference not mere hours ago. 

The room was still swathed in shadows, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fire. John's gaze was slowly drawn to the window, like a magnet finding its polar opposite to pull it along. The dark void still moved beyond the panes of glass; empty and as devoid of color as the black holes in space. Sherlock stood before the window, back to John–his neck a warm cradle for the Violin, his cheek pressed to it intimately, like an old lover. His other arm brought the bow so gracefully across the strings; and the sound it created made John practically tremble with emotion. 

A powder blue, silk Kimono hung off of the willowy mans shoulders; the soft hue a decadent contrast to his lush, pale skin. John had a perfect view of Sherlock's creamy throat– those riotous, rich curls caressing high cheek bones as he swayed to the music he created. The melody shifted subtly– transforming from a melancholy yearning, into a tender movement; the shyness before a first kiss, John felt. 

"Are you calm now?" Sherlock's baritone melded so seemlessly with the gentle vibrato; two halves of a musical whole. He didn't stop, did not turn to look at John as he continued to play his Violin at God knew what hour of the day it was. The preternatural darkness made it hard to gauge time in normal fashion. John looked absently to his wrist watch, and frowned. Odd... it seemed the battery had run dry, the clock face empty as the world beyond that window. 

"Um, err... yeah. I-I'm fine now," John replied, distantly aware that he had been asked a question over his well being. "Night terrors, used to them by now." 

"War does that to people..." was whispered by the enigmatic stranger so softly, John almost didn't catch it over the primal sob of the strings. 

It was a statement John had to process for a good minute. "Wait a minu— how the hell do you know if I have seen combat, or not?" He paused, gave the stranger a peculiar look, before he trudged on. "If you really are, as you proclaimed, a 'denizen of a London Below' then where did you get that sort of information on me? I suppose a little birdy just told you." 

The bow came to an abrupt stop; a staccato punctuation to John's statement. With a graceful poise not known to a simple man like John, Sherlock turned and regarded him with his ethereal gaze–the blue-green flashing like silver crescent moons against the dark. "I merely observed you. One does not live as long as I have, without gaining intimate knowledge regarding the human psyche and behavioral patterns." 

Disbelief was written clear as a cloudless summer day upon John's open features, and he snorted derisively. "I highly doubt you actually figured that all out on your own." 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed just a fraction, and he stepped closer; the powder blue silk fluttering about him like gentle waves lapping at the sandy beach of his bare ankles. "Skin tone can tell a lot about a person; and not just ethnicity, possible cultural back ground. For instance, what little patch of skin I saw of your chest when you slept was quite pale; but your face, your neck and hands are all kissed by a sun that glows far brighter than the one in our fair London. 

"Then, there is the matter of posture. Even while sitting, your back stays ramrod straight– proud, and disciplined. You look directly into the eyes of those who speak to you, all the markings of a soldier. Now, take into consideration that upon waking up and during our first formal conversation, you revealed to me that you have 'seen far worse' than what we went through in the park." 

Sherlock was pacing now, his eyes burning with a manic fire John could not quite comprehend, but found it oddly difficult to look away from. "Your left hand has an intermittent tremor, most likely due to the stress your body goes through since you were injured. And yes, the limp is obviously psychosomatic– otherwise you would not have easily wielded your cane for any thing other than an instrument with which to aid your mobile functions. 

"Now my knowledge, admittedly broader than most in London Below, is still very limited in the workings of your world, but I ask you this– Afghanistan, or Iraq?" 

John's head spun off its axis for a moment, the tizzying rounds of Sherlock's spit fire deductions hard to keep up with. Every one rang true though, and admittedly, John began to wonder if perhaps the man was telling the truth. Lies were never as elaborate as this... Sherlock even had methods to back up how he gleaned such knowledge by simply looking at him. "Afghanistan," John murmured, quietly; the subtlest admission that perhaps, he was starting to believe. 

A small smile wavered at the very corner of Sherlock's heart shaped mouth. He did not say anything more, but in that smile John could tell, the man knew he had won. 

– 

After their whole heated debate was dealt with, Sherlock had resumed his concerto; his audience, a very bemused John and a cow skull hanging on the wall. Some pieces that he chose to play were vaguely familiar, and others didn't even sound like songs at all– more like random saws across the strings, with a bow that had a life of its own. It was weirdly comforting, John thought; this dark room a cocoon of flickering firelight, and gentle music. 

Mrs. Hudson came trooping up the stairs eventually, drawn up by the sound of Sherlock's attempt at Bach. "John dear," she cooed, as if speaking to a beloved grandson, "I hope he didn't wake you? He tends to forget other people need to sleep..." 

"No, I uh– I woke up on my own. Didn't even know he was playing, until I was properly awake." 

She hummed her approval, and set about bustling around the kitchen. "There isn't much," she called out, her chipper voice cutting over the Violin with ease, "but I'll get you fed up, before you two take off." 

"Ta," John replied. It all felt so... natural. What with Mrs. Hudson humming what sounded like All you Need is Love in the Kitchen, Sherlock eventually accompanying her, and John still sat upon the couch, wrapped up in a midnight colored Belstaff. 

Time went on in that fashion; Mrs. Hudson starting up new songs, and Sherlock following along to the humming, and occasional singing. John surprised himself a few times, when he absently realized his own voice joined in. The clatter in the kitchen died down, and Mrs. Hudson came shuffling into the sitting room; carrying the same silver tray from last night. Three large, mismatched bowls were handed out, and John looked skeptically at the sluggish, brown contents that vaguely reminded him of stew. 

Not wanting to seem rude, he sunk his spoon in, and cautiously sampled the broth. "Mm, that's really good. What's in it?" John questioned, tucking in much more confidently now. 

Mrs. Hudson wouldn't quite meet John's eyes as she replied, "It's best that you not know, dearie." Well... that was reassuring John shivered; but pointedly ignored the way his stomach churned. 

– 

After they all had their fill of... stew, John decided to address the proverbial elephant in the room. He cleared his throat, and sweeped his gaze between his two hosts. "I'm... I'm not quite saying I fully believe you," his gaze stayed fixed upon Sherlock's bright cyan eyes now, "however, I'd have to be completely ignorant to not realize some thing about this place is definitely... off. I also have reason to believe that you both have little to gain, in lying to me about this whole ordeal. If.. if what all you say is true, that I've found my way into some subterranean version of London, that you may know of a way to get me back home and to my old life; how are we going to go about this?" 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, obviously pondering his words before he spoke them. "There is... a woman, a woman highly revered in the Underside. She is the closest thing to what you'd refer to as a Queen, that we have. She, is the Lady Door– and she is gifted with a very significant power to open doors, or portals. Not just in London Below either, her powers can affect your world as well. 

"In fact, this very place was a gift from her Grandfather to me; a sanctuary where I can be safe from those who wish me harm. However, the Lady Door is not who I need to seek out concerning you." 

John's face crinkled with confusion. "Then why bring her up, if she can't help me?" 

"She is only half of the solution. While the Lady Door could safely deliver you Above, that does not fix the predicament that you are in entirely– you'd still be invisible to all who reside Upside. No, who you need is her Companion, Richard Mayhew. A man, who once found himself in your very same situation." 

"If this Richard bloke can help me, why is he still here then?" John snapped, regretting it almost instantly– Sherlock was only trying to help after all, and he knew it was wiser not to bite a hand that was willingly feeding him. 

"He did find his way back, regained his old life... he decided to come back, and stay." The blue-green verdigris of Sherlock's eyes took on a misty, far away quality. He looked in that moment so... alone. "I... I do not pretend to understand his decision, but I suppose his motivations were founded in sentiment." 

There was silence. "So... how are we to um, to find this Lady Door and her Companion?" John ventured hesitantly, after a few minutes; letting Sherlock have his quiet contemplation. 

With a start, Sherlock came back to the present– a tiny frown creasing his brow. "Therein lies the problem, my dear Upworlder. Our Lady Door has been MIA these past eight months, hair nor hide of her even glimpsed down in the Underside. And that is why, we must go to the next Floating Market– because there just might be some one there who can help me track down the Marquis. If any one knows where she's secreted herself, it'll be him." 

"Alright, I trust you to get me home," John nodded, ever the dutiful soldier as he held Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock returned it, with equal intensity rippling through his ever changing eyes. 

Mrs. Hudson tittered happily to herself as she exclaimed, "It's so good to see you two finally getting on. I'll go pack you boy's some food for your little journey." Her rose petal smile was bright, and exuberant as she gathered up the dirty dishes and headed back to the kitchen. 

Sherlock contemplated John for a while, making him feel a little unsettled to be the orbiting focus of the man's piercing gaze. After a time, he leaned in toward John and whispered, "While I promise to do everything in my power to get you home, I shall warn you now that this venture will not be easy. This is a dark, and twisted world we tread down here; and the further I force you to unravel the secrets of the Underside, the further it sucks you in. Not to mention, I have danger of my own to contend with... what with those two scuttling about after me. Now, do you still want to follow me, even knowing the dangers that lie ahead?" 

"God yes, of course!" John exclaimed, voice a little raised in his excitement. "I don't want to stay trapped here forever... I– I want my life back. I want to wake up in my crap flat, and watch my two best friends fall in love. I want London back in my lungs." 

A wry smile slid across Sherlock's lips, barely noticeable; and John would not have observed it, if he had not been leaning in so close to the man. "Then I shall deliver you home, safe and sound– come hell or high water." 

A swelling feeling inflated John's chest all of a sudden; and it felt suspiciously like joy or maybe gratitude. This stranger owed him nothing, regardless of this situation being a result of both of their idiocy– and yet, he was going to risk leaving the quiet sanctuary of his home to help John reclaim his. He smiled at Sherlock, bright and unguarded, and was rewarded with the man's slightly baffled expression; as if he had never seen such a facial expression directed at him. A soft blush bloomed high upon Sherlock's ridiculously sharp cheekbones, and he looked away– clearly embarrassed. 

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock suddenly called out, deep voice booming and slightly commanding. "Where's my skull?" 

The woman in question popped her head from around the door frame. "I used it yesterday, to go visit my sister, I must have left it down in my living room." Sherlock grunted, and dashed up from his armchair in a sudden fit, to go storm down the stairs.

John chose to completely gloss over the bit about using a skull to visit relatives... his eyes inevitability seeking out the tarnished cow skull already on the wall. Must have a penchant for dead things John shivered at the thought. Not even a minute later, heavy footsteps bounded up the stairs and Sherlock reappeared, carrying a pristine white, human skull. 

"Best not to ask questions, we need to pack," Sherlock tossed over his shoulder, already sweeping his way towards what John assumed to be his room. 

With soreness of cramped muscles from sleeping on a couch, and sitting around for almost 24 hours, John finally chanced standing. He was a little wary, because his cane was not there to assist him and he still wasn't sure if his legs would hold without it. But he surprised himself, when all he felt was a dull twinge for only a moment, before he took a cautious step forward. 

"Are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson, ever the dotting mother figure, came shuffling in carrying two leather knapsacks, already stuffed with food, and miscellaneous items. 

"Yeah... I'm fine. Just, getting used to walking with out my cane, got a bad leg even though I was shot in the shoulder." 

"I'm sorry to hear that. Hopefully Sherlock won't run you ragged, he's very spirited when the mood strikes and forgets not all of us are immortals like him." 

John stopped, mouth agape. It was one thing to feed him tales of some twisted Alice and Wonderland like place under the streets of London, but now they wanted him to believe that Immortals did exist, and that Sherlock Holmes was actually one of them? That was stretching John's ability to cope with insane notions just a bit... 

"What do you mean by tha–" but John never got to finish his question, because Sherlock came bustling back in, clad in his clothes from the other day– only, now he had a royal blue, silk scarf wound around his marble column of a neck. 

"Is that everything?" He rumbled, snatching his Belstaff off of the couch and tugged it on hastily. 

"Yes, that should about cover all you'll need," Mrs. Hudson nodded, beaming up at the vibrating excitedness Sherlock practically exuded. "Promise me you'll come home in one piece Sherlock." 

The man nodded. "I shall do my best, Mrs. Hudson– ever the bastion of my well-being." 

She got a little misty eyed at that, and turned to John with a watery smile. "And I hope you get your life back in order, dearie. It was a pleasure meeting such a sweet Upworlder like yourself. It... it may seem a little silly, since I just met you and all but– I hope I never forget you, and that you will remember me." Mrs. Hudson's withered hands fumbled then at the Oleander flower pinned to her peach colored chemise, and she wordlessly handed it to John. 

"Many years ago, I traveled to Wall and bought this with my hair. The lady told me, it would bring me happiness with the one I was to love. I found that person, and lost him long ago– so now, I hope that it brings you the same fortune, John." 

She pushed the Oleander into his hands, and he was utterly surprised to find it cool to the touch and that it was spun from glass. "I can't take this–" 

"Yes you can dear, I want you to have some thing to remember an old lady by. Now don't argue, and say 'thank you Mrs. Hudson'." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John murmured, his throat feeling strangely tight with emotion. He had only known her for less than a day, but he knew that her gentle and loving kindness would leave an indelible mark upon his heart. He tucked the glass flower into the inside pocket of his army green coat and gave the woman a heartfelt smile. 

Sherlock cleared his throat, subtly grabbing their attention; a bored look in place, an obvious display of his distaste of sentiment. He shouldered one of the satchels, and nodded at John, indicating he do the same. When he did, Sherlock announced, "I need you to take my hand, and whatever happens Upworlder– don't. Let. Go." 

John's clammy fingers sought out Sherlock's hand, warm and slightly rough. He squeezed it once, a reassuring gesture; though he wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to reassure... 

Sherlock smirked, and then with his free hand raised the skull up, high above their heads. His deep voice rang out, but John could not understand the tongue in which he spoke the words. He looked to Sherlock, whose whole being seemed to glow with a radiant light that grew brighter, and brighter– until there was only darkness. 

~T.B.C.~ 

The dream: is a reference to Richard, and how he constantly dreamed of the giant beast that roamed the Labyrinth; which was his destiny to slay. I wanted to add a bit of a creepy, nightmare element to John having a dream like that about the spider that controls the web. 

Sherlock's Kimono: I just felt that a regular blue silk dressing gown would be too normal for the eclectic world of London Below. Remember, Male Kimono's are very different from female one's in Japan. 

Afghanistan or Iraq?: Of course I'd have to add in such a quintessential Sherlock scene in some fashion. Sherlock has a fascination with London Above, and that's all I shall say on the matter for now, and so he knows some things about John's world. 

All you need is love: Again, a glimpse into how the citizens Below get filtered snitbits from Above. I feel like Mrs. Hudson would love this song. 

The Stew...: it had badger meat in it, don't ask how Mrs. Hudson got a hold of a badger. 

Everything should be fairly explanitory. If not, just leave your questions in a PM or review. 

Until next time lovelies, ta!


	4. Network of the Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get to find out a little bit more concerning General Shan, and Sherlock and John find an ally.

A/N: Hello to those of you who are actually reading this, and hugs all around! Sorry this was so long coming, I had a tad bit of writers block with this chapter, and had to deal with the harrowing ordeal of helping my best friend pack, to move across state. Not having her nearby has been a little hard for me, so I haven't been the happiest lately, so writing spurts were few and far between. However, I have obviously soldiered on long enough to deliver to you, chapter four. Please enjoy! 

Down Once More   
Chapter Four: Network of the Underground

Shan was a practical woman. She knew what she wanted, and how to get it. There were no alleys too crooked, or tasks too morbid for her to undertake; as long as there was a means to an end. She craved control, adored power and above all– knew how to weave the threads that would reward her, her hearts desires. 

She was feared in the Underside. A whisper of the name, 'General Shan' was like hearing stories of the bogeyman. The inhabitants would cross themselves, and hope that her entourage –The Black Lotus– would kindly pass them by. Shan answered to no one, until the fateful day she met Jeff Hope. 

The first time her mysterious, almond eyes clapped sight to the man, she instantly dismissed him as 'not worth her notice.' 

She was lounged lazily upon a silk covered liter, with ornate pillows stuffed with goose down to support her supine figure. Men were demonstrating their power for her amusement, after all, Floating Markets were great places to pick up a few spare hands. 

A willowy Spaniard, with olive skin and a shocking frizz of carrot colored hair grappled with a man with sable, weathered skin. The Spaniard was garbed in the brightest, most outlandish rags; a gypsy no doubt. His opponent, simply wore a brown, linen monk's robe. Veins corded in their necks, and biceps rippled with the effort to disarm the other. There was always a lot of sweat during these matches. 

Shan wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

With an air of boredom about her, she yawned; one of her pale hands dripping with gold and gems, lifting to cover her pink insides. The Spaniard crowed triumphantly like the preening cock he was, as his stiletto found purchase in the cavern of the monk's heart. It quivered with the remaining remnants of the man's heartbeats, and stilled; blood seeping out and edging toward the hay that littered the makeshift ring. 

The man sauntered his way over to the very edge of the ring, and bowed before the General. "I have won! And there are none left who oppose me. With the humblest of intentions, I ask to join the Black Lotus." His voice was thickly accented, and nasal. Shan resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose again. 

"Ye know, I really 'ate people who count all their chickens afore they 'atch." 

Every one turned, and looked to the middle aged man who now stood in the center of the ring. Underneath his jaunty paper boy's hat, bright blue eyes twinkled with a sharpness Shan rarely found in the Underside. He had a sneer fixed to his face, and a tire iron swinging distractedly in his left hand. 

"And who are you? Do you dare challenge me, even after I have proved my skills are most exemplary?" The Spaniard cried, aghast. 

"Name's Jeff Hope, and I've come to show ya whot a real fight is like." 

Shan's guardsmen looked to her, a silent question if they should intervene. She looked Jeff Hope up and down, and shrugged. "If they wish to honour me with death, then so be it." She declared, already growing disinterested. If the Spaniard won, then she had gained a fierce underling. 

If the old man won, well– at least she had one more number to add to the ranks either way. She just hoped they didn't kill each other... then this would have all been a waste of time. She hated wasting time. 

With a cocky smirk, and an over embellished bow, The Spaniard turned to face his newest opponent. "Any last wishes, sénor?" He mocked, twisting his blade out of the cooling heart it was wedged in to. 

"Yeah, I gots one," Hope retorted, a sly grin creeping across his face. "For the love 'o Arch and Temple, stop talkin'; yer whinin' voice is givin' me a 'eadache." 

The smirk fell on the Spaniards lips, and he scowled darkly. It was the only warning given, before he lunged. 

For all his ponce, and cock-suredness, the Spaniard lost to Hope rather easily. Shan looked on in shock, as one moment the ginger haired man was stabbing for the stranger's throat– and the next, his brains were decorating the dirt floor. Hope shuddered with adrenaline, his tire iron dripping with Spanish blood. 

After a brief respite, he turned his calculating blue eyes on Shan; a grotesque sneer hovering over his blood stained lips. He nodded, and made to walk forward– stopping only when Shan called out, "Who are you? And what do you want with me, ally of the Underside?" 

Jeff Hope huffed out a laugh, and leveled General Shan with a patronizing look. "My... employer 'as 'eard tale of ya, miss. An' I'm sure it'd be in every un's best interest, if you joined us for a spot 'o tea." 

A coy smile wrapped Shan's lips in a pleasant embrace. "And who, may I ask, is your employer?" 

With that question, General Shan found herself entangled in the Spider's Web. 

– 

Shan flinched, their employer's ire quite transparent as he smashed a bottle of ink against the nearest wall. The man at his side's face was still impassive; the blank face of a wind up, toy soldier awaiting his next command to bring him to life. 

"This," their employer's voice shook unevenly, "this is why I have trust issues. I ordered you two to bring me Sherlock Holmes, and what do you do? YOU FAIL!" His voice echoed, and roared with increased intensity; as it bounced around the wet, cavern walls. 

"I tolds ya', we would 'o 'ad 'im, if'n it weren't fer that Upworlder's interferin'." 

He rounded on Hope instantly; a hungry lion looking for a lamb. "See, I don't really find that to be much of an excuse," his voice was hushed to a gentle indifference. It was far more terrifying than the shouting. 

Hope scowled, not meeting their employers blazing gaze. "Now, I want you to tell me why I should let the both of you live. And make the reason good. I'm not in the mood to be bored by insipid drivel..." 

Shan and Hope shared a look, and the latter smiled. "Luckily fer you mate, we brought yer sniffer dog a lil' present." With a relaxed air, he tossed the muscular blond at their employer's side, an aluminum cane. 

The man presented their boss the sleek, modern piece; a relic of London Above. "I see..." he voiced, quietly– turning the cane round and around in his hands. "Looks like fate is on your sides. Today, I don't get to kill you– now get a move on, go make daddy proud." 

– 

There was a twisting, pinching feeling in John's gut. Wind roared like a hurricane inside his head, and his eyes watered with an unexplained force. The world around them was blacker than pitch, and quite honestly John would have thought he was all alone, if not for the warm hand gripping his so tightly. He looked to the side, tried in vain to make out even the faintest outline of his companion through the dark. 

It felt like they were falling from some great, unknowable height. 

His palm grew slick with sweat; the fear and adrenaline spiking his emotions on some grand Richter scale of familiar sensation. John could feel his fingers starting to slip through the velvet soft gaps of Sherlock's hand. 

"DON'T LET GO, UPWORLDER!" Sherlock bellowed, his nimble fingers scrabbling to reclaim the iron clad embrace they had held on John's. 

John felt his body being pulled, tugged into the orbit of Sherlock's willowy frame. Their hands were still clasped together; a strong, warm limb encircled his waist as they continued to fall. 

"Don't let go, hold fast to me..." Sherlock whispered, his moist breath fanning across John's cheek. He closed his eyes, and clung to his companion like he was a buoy; and John was a sailor, lost at sea. 

A burst of dim light pierced the thin veil of John's eyelids, and he opened his eyes just in time– before they plummeted into murky water. The gritty silt caught in his eyelashes, and scraped against his eyes. His nose and mouth took on an influx of water, and it burned like fire. John couldn't breathe, was not prepared to hold his breath before the unexpected plunge. He scrabbled weakly at Sherlock's fluttering coat, the thick wool shrouding their bodies like some midnight cocoon. 

Their feet hit bottom, and with the gathered momentum, Sherlock shoved up. The second John's head surfaced, he pulled in a grateful lung full of oxygen– sputtering, and coughing out the water that had managed to fill up his lungs. At his side, Sherlock seemed unperturbed, already wading one armed to shore. The other arm was still firmly embracing John. 

Once he regained his faculties, John assisted Sherlock in wading to shore; and with in a few minutes, they were dragging their soaking wet bodies onto a cold, cement shoreline. Panting, and gasping slightly for air– John fell boneless to the roughly hewn floor. He looked forlornly at his water logged pack, internally mourning the loss of all their supplies. 

At his side, Sherlock stood in one fluid, unbelievably graceful movement; even after their surprising ordeal. He ruffled his elegant fingers through his sopping wet curls, and pushed them into some semblance of order. And then, his cool, unwavering eyes locked with John's and the barest hint of a smile curled at the edges of Sherlock's lips. 

John couldn't help the answering grin that danced like a sunbeam across his own shocked features. 

After a brief respite, the two unlikely companions sifted glumly through their provisions; sorting them into piles of salvageable, and so far gone why should we even bother? Surprisingly, most of the food Mrs. Hudson packed survived the impromptu dip into the underground lake– but the tube map, a loaf of bread, and the matches were all hopelessly ruined. 

"Well, glad the torch still works at least," John offered needlessly, if only to fill the awkward silence. He cleared his throat self consciously when Sherlock didn't respond, and averted his attention back to the task at hand. 

The soft, rustling sounds became a static noise in the back ground as John carefully shoved the usable items back into his pack. With a final jerk at the drawstrings, John cinched up his bag and swung it up over his good shoulder; his gaze pulled like a lodestone back to Sherlock's bowed head– his curls springing back to life as they dried. 

With a grunt of approval, Sherlock did up his pack and straightened; his laser focus piercing into John's skin like quicksilver daggers. "Are you ready, Upworlder?" He questioned curtly, an elegantly sculpted brow quirked upward to mirror his tone. 

"As I'll ever be," John replied, adjusting the bag before he took off after Sherlock's impossibly long, confident strides. 

– 

They traveled in relative silence, as their wet clothes clung to damp skin, and all about made John utterly miserable. A semi-circle of pale gold, diffused light swept before them as they walked; the rays of the torch hardly a combatant against the all enveloping darkness of the underground. John shivered, and tugged his jacket closer, even if the soaking wet material did little to ward off the chill. 

He soldiered on though, trailing behind Sherlock like an obedient stray chasing after an empty promise of scraps, and a warm bed. John opened his mouth to say some thing, but thought better of it, and snapped it shut with a soft huff. His 'companion' had already made it quite clear, that he wasn't the talking sort. Instead, John elected to keep his brewing questions to himself– at least until Sherlock made it apparent that he was willing to hold more than a monosyllabic conversation with him. 

There was a slow, and gradual shift to their surroundings. Wet, dank walls gave way to warm, dry air; the faintest whisper of traffic winding with the wind. John perked up at that, the familiar sounds of London resonating with his weary being. 

The maelstrom of shouting voices, honking horns and all around thrumming, city life beckoned to John like a dying man to absolution. Without thinking, he fell into the orbit of that metropolitan, siren's call. 

He was dimly aware of the halo of light, gradually fading away; the soft sound of Sherlock's breathing drowned out by city sounds. With an impossibly relieved smile, John saw a dim spark of sunlight up ahead– his cautious pace steadily morphing into a slow run. I'm almost home, almost— 

"UPWORLDER?!" 

Like a thunderclap, Sherlock's deep, gravelly voice shattered the illusion. John started, the haze lifting from his mind– to reveal the teetering edge of a vast, endlessly dark precipice. And he was swaying dangerously close to falling over into that abyss; held fast to solid ground by the pale, elegant fingers that had a death-clutch on his jacket sleeve. 

"Sh-sherlock?" His voice wavered out, small and frightened, and very confused. 

A dark grimace morphed the man's angelic face, into a grim mask of rippling fire, and anger. With a fierce yank, Sherlock pulled John out of harms way, and into the willowy, ramrod straight safety of his chiseled chest. 

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?" He barked out, pushing John further away from the looming edge. 

John winced, feeling properly chastised by the indignant fury in Sherlock's tone. "I– I wasn't thinking... I just, I heard sounds from Above and I–" he cut himself off, already feeling incredibly stupid for his actions. 

An exasperated, sad expression replaced the dark, brooding one Sherlock garnered; he shook his head, and turned. "Come Upworlder," he commanded, already heading back the way they had come. He need not look behind him, as Orpheus fearful of his Eurydice not following close behind. 

– 

John was quite positive that Sherlock had no idea where he was going. They wandered aimlessly through the dark, going deeper and deeper underground. He could only tell, because the air cloyed at his skin with a wet, frigid chill. His clothes had barely even dried... 

There were times where Sherlock would suddenly halt in their progression, mutter darkly under his breath, and about face– taking them back the way they had been traveling for what felt like hours upon hours. John was tired, bitterly cold, and his feet were sore.

However, the moment John had finally decided to speak his mind– a flickering red and orange light bloomed into sudden existence up ahead. Of course, after the almost near death experience from earlier, he was a little leery of trusting his senses. 

Sherlock turned to him, shocking John with the practically cheerful smile that wavered upon his cupids bow lips. "It took us long enough, but soon we can rest and sort a few things out," he declared, picking up his languid pace. John sighed, frowning because Sherlock was being enigmatic as ever; but rushed along after him none-the-less. 

As they neared their mysterious destination, John could make out more details; the warm, hazy light of a fire sharpening the blurry edges of reality. A rusted, metal bin housed the crackling flames– dove-grey smoke gently billowing up into the dark recesses above. There was a man, crouched before the fire; hands held toward the flickering heat. He was hunched in on himself, but John could still tell the man was incredibly tall, and impossibly lean, just by the way his tattered blue hoodie swamped his scrawny frame. 

"What caused you to move location so drastically?" Sherlock questioned, sauntering over to the man with an air of familiarity. 

He looked up from his intense study of the flames, shock widening his deep set, sharp eyes. " 'ello Sherlock sire, fancy seein' you 'ere." The man smiled, a tad cheekily; his fingers curling further toward the fire. "An' to answer your question, I 'ad ta move– whot with those skulking little gnats buzzin' about." He looked to John then, just noticing his presence, and frowned. 

"Oi, whot's with the Upworlder then?" 

Sherlock vaguely gestured in John's general direction, and shrugged before supplying, "Fell through the cracks, attempting to save me from those 'buzzing little gnats'. So, I'm taking it upon myself to help him find his way back home." He finished his explanation with a little smile, an expression that looked utterly forced and alien on his features. 

John offered a sheepish grin, ducking his head a bit as he said, "Just so." 

The man thrust a fingerless gloved hand out and towards John. "Nice ta meet ya mate, name's Wiggins– but you can call me Wiggy, everyun' else does." 

"No they don't," Sherlock drawled, swishing off his Belstaff and scarf to place them near the fire. 

Wiggins scowled at him petulantly, before turning his attention back to John– who at this point moved forward to shake his hand. He leaned in, like a little school boy telling a treasured secret. "I'm his protege," he whispered proudly, a happy sparkle lighting up his tepid gaze. 

"No... you aren't." 

"I get all his stuff, once he kicks the bucket." 

Sherlock sighed heavily, grimacing. "He's not even listening to me..." he muttered darkly, starting to disrobe. He shed his clothes with the ease and grace that he seemed to constantly exude, no amount of hesitancy, even before a relative stranger. Within moments, Sherlock was only in his eggplant colored pants, and curled joyfully toward the fire. "I'd suggest you do the same too, Upworlder– the last thing we need, is you catching your death of cold." 

John could feel embarrassment heating the tips of his ears, and crawl toward his cheeks with an annoying swiftness. "Uh... I-I... erm," he spluttered, and cringed; hating how he sounded like a nervous teen again, faced with his first time in a boys locker room. "Y-yeah, you're probably right." 

"Am right," Sherlock replied, not even looking toward John– opting instead to watch the dancing flames twist and writhe in intricate, unearthly patterns. 

With a nod, John did as directed and slipped off his soggy green coat, and brown cardigan. Then, he toed off his black leather boots, and his sad excuse for socks... his discarded items of clothing a pitiful, wet heap on the floor. That was the easy part, now came the moment where things got a bit tricky. 

With averted eyes, and a flush burning the tip of his nose, John pulled off his oatmeal colored Jumper and plain white undershirt. His fingers shook slightly as he undid his belt buckle, and slowly peeled the damp denim away from his legs. Left in only his red Y-fronts, John looked over to Wiggins and Sherlock slowly– throat closing uncomfortably when he noticed a certain pair of pale, effervescent eyes drinking in his near nudity curiously. 

Sherlock's gaze roved over every inch of John's compact, sturdy frame; only stopping to linger on the star burst like scar on his left shoulder. John cleared his throat, trying to divert the man's attention back to a more comfortable place to look... 

With a slight start, Sherlock finally looked away from his perusal of John's chest and returned focus back to his open, honest face. Wiggins had lost interest minutes ago, and had managed to wander off with out drawing any attention to his departure. John opened his mouth, to inquire where the man could have gone, when he returned; carrying a ratty looking blanket, and thin mat. 

"In case you blokes need ta keep warm whilst your clothes dry," he simply stated, setting the things beside Sherlock, and resuming his fireside vigil. 

Sherlock gratefully pulled the blanket over his trembling, pale shoulders; holding out the other end wordlessly to John. He swallowed thickly, knowing full well that it was just pure, logical survival tools– sharing body heat to keep warm. It still didn't make the prospect any less awkward... 

There would be no sense arguing though. Normalcy was a luxury he no longer could afford, in this dark, subterranean world he found himself traversing. So John shuffled over, a little awkwardly, and settled in beside Sherlock; their clammy biceps brushing, and the opposite end of the blanket being tugged around his shoulders. 

Almost instantly his skin began to warm, comfortable and pleasant– in a way that shamefully had him thinking of morning lie ins with ex-girlfriends, after nights filled with phenomenal sex. He had to remind himself that he was clad now in only his pants, and that a casual hard on would be widely frowned upon, current company notwithstanding. 

"Bill, I need you to do a favor for me– if you can manage." Sherlock suddenly spoke, effectively distracting John from the inevitable boner he would have suffered, when he recalled his last girlfriend. She had such a glorious arse... 

"Anythin' Sir, you just name it, and I'm yer man." Wiggins puffed up proudly, a wide smile revealing the wreckage of his teeth. 

Sherlock clutched the blanket, and inadvertently John along with it, closer to his trembling frame as he replied, "I need you to figure out where the nearest Floating Market will occur. There is some one I need to find, and our best bet right now is to ask around there." 

"No problem there boss, I already know that! Next Market is in ol' Big Ben, 'sposed to be rather low-key though, whot with everyun' gettin' ready for Remembrance Day." 

"I guess that will have to do for now. We cannot afford to waste time being choosey, though I do have my reservations that the information we need shall be obtained there." Sherlock stated, a slightly distracted air to his tone; his intense gaze darkening with inner reflection. 

John just silently followed along with the conversation, resigned to the fact that his fate was no longer in his hands. Not when he understood nothing of this world he was forced to tread. 

They were all silent for a while, watching the fire dance. But necessities arose, like scrounging up a meager meal of slightly warmed, canned beans and granola bars supplied by Wiggins. After they ate, Sherlock suggested they scout out for some spare wood, so they could prop their clothes closer to the fire. 

What they managed to scavenge, after almost an hour of searching, were a couple planks of rotting plywood that had been floating on the lake, and carried to the shoreline. 

John settled the damp, slightly moldy wood against the metal bin, and strung their clothes up to dry. With a tired, satisfied smile, he returned to the spot where he and Sherlock had resided– the thin mat spread out, and temptingly waiting. 

Wiggins was already curled upon the cold, slightly damp ground; his oversized hoodie clutched tightly around him like a makeshift blanket. He snuffled softly in his sleep, his haggard features slack, and peaceful. 

"I'm surprised he can sleep like that, it's so bloody cold down here," John whispered, settling down next to Sherlock once more; who was sat with his knees drawn up to his bare chest, and a bit closer to the fire. 

"It is not always cold, in our world. There are places that dance with light, and make you dizzy with wonder." A tiny, fond smile brightened up Sherlock's features, an obvious reminiscent quality to his hushed voice. It did not last long, before the unguarded joy, melted into some thing melancholic. 

"But when we do not occupy those wondrous places, we learn to become accustomed to the chill, and the dark– we live with the fear, the constant upheaval of our lives." Sherlock's tone was grave, his cyan eyes far, far away. After a moment, he turned his attention back to John, "And I do not want you to suffer that life Upworlder, it is far more than your kind can bare." 

John felt affronted, wanted to snap back that he had lived through a veritable hell and made it out relatively unscathed; but Sherlock looked to him with such agonizing pity, and sincerity. It made his throat close around his words, and he looked away. 

"Get some sleep, Upworlder." Sherlock murmured, as he sightlessly gazed into the dark. 

"Aren't you going to sleep too? I don't really mind, if we have to share the mat or blanket..." 

A small, secretive kind of smile curled Sherlock's shapely mouth; the fire light casting his face into a wicked profile. "Don't worry about me," he eventually responded, "I'll be fine." 

John opened his mouth, but thought better of it, recalling Mrs. Hudson's cryptic words about Sherlock not being quite like the commonwealth. Instead, he just shrugged and flopped gratefully onto the thin barrier of the mat; tugging the blanket as close to himself as was humanly possible. He watched the flickering light waver, and play across Sherlock's pale skin, that always seemed like it was glowing– like he was a fallen angel, trapped in mortal chains. 

The thought made John chuckle sleepily, his eyelashes feathering across his cold cheeks. The last conscious thought that he was dimly aware of thinking, before he succumbed to sleep, was the the vague realization that even as the firelight cast its shadows upon Sherlock's skin, the man himself produced no shadow of his own. 

E/N: thank you for reading. Please, please drop a review! I would really appreciate some type of feedback, good or bad. I just want to know how people feel about this story.


	5. The Toll of the Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John enjoy some lovely banter while traveling through the vast sewers of London's Underground. A fun time is had for all involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little over a year since I first started this story, and I've finally banged out chapter 5... I'm going to apologize profusely for getting caught up in other work, and just leave this here for you all to enjoy!   
> Cheers~

Down Once More   
Chapter Five: The Toll of the Bell

John was roused in the wee hours of the morning. At least, he assumed so; considering his internal alarm clock had never steered him wrong before. He awoke to piercing eyes glowing in the murky light, and an impatient scowl looming over him.

"Finally, you're awake. I was beginning to wonder if I should just leave you here..." Sherlock drawled, righting himself from the crouched position he had assumed over John's sleeping form. He absently flicked dust from his pristine coat, and stated blandly, "you should get dressed, Upworlder. We haven't a moment to lose, if we are to get to the Floating Market on time." 

With a sigh, John did as suggested and left the warm cocoon the thin blanket had surprisingly provided. His bones creaked and cracked in a horrendous symphony, cramped muscles seizing up and then releasing as he stretched. He shuffled over groggily to the boards propped up against the metal bin. Flickering embers, and charcoal ash stained the bottom of the container as the fire clung to what little life it had left. 

Starting with his trousers, John wordlessly pulled on his dry, slightly warmed clothes; grateful for the extra barrier of warmth in this accursed place. Shoe laces done up, he straightened- just barely catching the packet of assorted nuts that was chucked at his face. 

"Oi," John snapped, but tore into the package gratefully; stuffing a handful of cashews and almonds into his mouth. It helped take some of the edge off his clawing hunger. 

"You have ten minutes to eat, and take care of what ever bodily functions you need to before we must leave." Sherlock shot over his shoulder, crumpling up his own empty packet and tossing the wrapper onto the dying embers. He then turned, striding briskly away from their makeshift campsite.

Swallowing quickly John replied, "Where are you going?" 

Halting, Sherlock responded, "I... Need to talk to some one." He sounded hesitant, like he didn't want to reveal his intentions. The realization prickled against John's nerves. 

Looking around, John noticed that Wiggins was no where to be seen. "Who... Who exactly do you need to talk to, Sherlock?" He didn't know why, but a sense of foreboding creeped across his suddenly chilly skin. What if I really can't trust him? The thought had no grounds to be true, but still, John realized he had been far too trusting through this whole ordeal. For all he knew, Sherlock could be luring Upworlder's from Above to sell off as slaves at this 'Floating Market' or some thing. 

"If I tell you, and I only consider doing so because I see the distrust written so garishly across your face that it makes me sick, you may regret it. This is... one of the Undersides darkest, and most forgotten secrets- and learning this information will only pull you in deeper." 

John knew he was no where near as observant as Sherlock, but even he could trust the sincerity in the man's luminous eyes. And he felt fucking awful for even doubting Sherlock for a second. "I..." John hesitated, mulling the thought over a bit. 

On the one hand, his curiosity was getting the better of him, and on the other, John had his trepidations. After all, did he really want to make things harder on himself, to get back home? To obtain his life again? 

Some how, his trust in Sherlock had to be tested, and all at once he knew his answer. "Who do you need to talk to?" John responded, the question voiced in firm, no nonsense fashion. 

For just a moment, Sherlock's eyes widened, and his lips parted in what seemed like surprise; before his features wiped themselves clean of any emotion. He then cocked his head to the side and studied John, a fond smile lighting up his face. "You seem to choose such interesting fates for yourself, Upworlder." 

John did not know why that notion felt like a sort of premonition, but it did. It left him feeling cold, and clammy, and just a little confused. 

Sighing heavily, Sherlock's chin sunk against his chest for a moment, and he murmured to himself; his lips barely moving around the syllables- voice dark and low, and in a tongue John could not recognize. It sounded like sinewy shadows, if that description made any sense. He was instantly reminded of the moment when Sherlock raised the skull high, and barked out an unknown command that led them spiraling into an underground lake; when moments before, they were ensconced in the warm confines of the shadowy flat. 

Abruptly, Sherlock's murmuring quieted.

It was silent, the faraway sound of waves lapping against the cement the only noise punctuating the stillness. John opened his mouth, to inquire after what he should be expecting, when all of a sudden the atmosphere changed. There was a sonorous wailing as wind rushed by; swirling and howling in the underground cavern. The darkness writhed, contorting into grotesque, macabre shapes. It made absolutely no sense at all, but in his time spent in this Topsy turvy universe, John learned that rationalizing things was pointless. 

And like a portrait gradually being inked in, the shadows began creating a distinct shape. In mere moments, there stood before them a dog crafted of wispy tendrils of smoke and darkness. A booming bark splintered the stagnant air, the dogs tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth in fluid, ethereal movements. 

John eyed the creature with apprehension, his gaze flicking toward Sherlock and then widening in shock at the expression he found on the man's face. It was adoration, pure and simple. The kind of look you found on any persons face when they were in the company of a beloved pet. 

"Hello Redbeard!" Sherlock crooned, as he bended toward the shadow hound. Redbeard let out a soft huff in response, his tail wagging; the outcome merely wisps dancing in intricate patterns. 

Sherlock faced John, beaming brightly- he wasn't sure if the sight was sweet or incredibly off putting. "John, this is Redbeard- at least that's what I call him. He is the last of his kind, a long forgotten creature of the darkness." 

"H-hullo, Redbeard..." John mumbled, and the dog barked in acknowledgement. An otherworldly blue light shone deep within the creatures eye sockets; like witch fire. 

"I saved him from extinction, many years ago..." the soft, chillingly haunted tone was barely audible. "The entirety of his genealogy was to be wiped out, as decreed by Fate. I didn't think it was fair, but I was only able to save him in the end. However, there were... consequences." Sherlock was fiddling with his silk scarf with a distracted air, gaze a million miles away

John's attention returned to Redbeard, and he couldn't help but feel sorry for the creature. Also, he was absolutely enthralled by the story still left unspoken; but John had an inkling that that was all he was going to get on the matter-- at least for now. It was probably for the best any way, the more he knew about Sherlock's world, the harder it would be to get out of it apparently... 

"Redbeard, I need you to do some thing for me-- some thing very important," Sherlock spoke softly to the creature. The shadow hound yapped a response, as if it were really trying to communicate. "I need you to contact Mycroft. I know it might take some time to sniff him out, and he definitely won't be pleased to see you, but it is imperative that he knows about the danger we face. Can you do that for me?" 

Redbeard dipped his head in response, and it hit John for the first time how sentient this creature was. Sherlock allowed a small smile before he continued, "Tell Mycroft that the Web is moving, and that they are after me-- and most likely him as well. Explain that I still have no idea why they want me, but that I'm rather certain it has some thing to do with this," here Sherlock paused to tug absently at his scarf, much to John's confusion. "And have him pass the message onto Sherrinford, if he can. If he wishes for better details, he can find me by stopping by any of the Floating Markets for the next few days." 

With what sounded like a bark of affirmation, Sherlock wished Redbeard a safe and swift journey; and then, the shadowy figure was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived. "I'm sorry if you wanted to have a little chat with old Redbeard, but we really should be moving-- we've wasted too much time today, if we have any hope in getting to the Market with enough time to look around." 

"That's alright. I don't speak shadow dog any way," John quipped with a wry smile. And then, to his surprise, Sherlock laughed and gave John the biggest smile he had yet to see coming from the man. 

\---- 

They left their makeshift campsite, stamping out what was left of the fire and hiding the metal bin for Wiggins to find again later. Sherlock explained while they tugged it along, that this was one of many places the skull would take him, and that Wiggins was always stationed nearby any cycled location. He also informed John that he had sent Wiggins to go search out any clues to the Marquis's location, and that they would meet up in three days time if neither of them could come up with a lead. 

After that though, Sherlock traveled in silence-- and followed the tunnel as it gradually narrowed into a tight passageway. John mulled over how to start a conversation with his companion, since he didn't much fancy walking along side some one for so long with out speaking. Especially since the more time he spent with Sherlock, the fonder he was growing of the man's personality. He was rude and arrogant, no doubt about that, but he was also charming-- and deeply enigmatic. 

"Just talk Upworlder, if you want to so badly." Sherlock sighed. John could practically hear the eyeroll attached to that statement... 

"How do you do that? Are you psychic or some thing, because that would explain quite a lot-- and it's sad that I can actually say that." 

Sherlock groaned at that, sort of sounding like a teenager who was tired of their parents embarrassing them in front of a crush. "Haven't we been over this? I do not posses the ability to peer into your little matchbox mind-- I merely observe! From the way you keep sighing and snapping your jaw like a turtle, I drew the natural conclusion that there was some thing you wanted to say. It's called noticing social cues, and though I have been accused of not being able to under stand them, you'll find I'm very good at picking them out." 

"You know," John huffed, his irritation swelling, "you can stand to at least pretend to not be an insufferable ass. I've done some 'picking up on social cues' myself for the short day I've known you, and you can be rather sweet when you don't realize you're acting human." 

There was a sudden halt to their progression as Sherlock stopped, and whirled on John with a cold look in his eyes. "You fail to realize, I'm always play acting at humanity Upworlder. That's one of the quirky little things that separate me from my kind." 

"W-what in God's name do you even mean? Can you go for one full sentence without spouting off some thing mysterious?! Trying to decipher what you mean is starting to give me a headache..." 

Sherlock turned, his features contorting into a frustrated sneer. "Never mind, you wouldn't understand nor should you be forced to. Forget I said anything, and let's keep moving." 

Faltering for a moment, and feeling incredibly lost to the situation, John could only dumbly nod as he continued following Sherlock Holmes. After a minute of silence, John piped up, "So... who is Mycroft? He must be some one important, if you're sending a message to him." 

"We're not discussing Mycroft. I haven't enough time to describe the most insufferable man in the Underside to you," Sherlock snapped, lifting his nose in the air like a bratty child who didn't want to deal with some thing. 

"You mean there's some one more insufferable than you down here? Hope I never cross paths with that bloke..." 

A petulant glare was shot over Sherlock's shoulder, and John smirked at the man's reaction. "Watch your head," mumbled Sherlock, stooping over himself as the passage's ceiling dipped lower. They both shuffled through the low hanging passageway, and then finally came out to a cement blockade, with a wide channel of murky brown water running past it. 

"Oh God," John exclaimed, slapping a hand hastily over his nose and scrunching his face up in disgust. "That smells horrid!" his voice was muffled, and sounded quite nasally coming through the gaps in his fingers. 

"What else would a sewer smell like?" Sherlock asked, seemingly unaffected by the stench. "Be lucky I'm not asking you to go Scuba diving." 

John gave Sherlock a look, one that seemed one hundred percent unamused by his attempt at humor. 

With careful movements, Sherlock picked a path through the slippery sludge that had sloshed over the sides of the barricade; his torch light barely enough illumination to reach a few feet ahead of him. "Be careful, don't want you slipping and banging up your head. One only knows how many brain cells that would leave you." 

"Hey!" John proclaimed, only half as offended as he should be by such a rude comment. He was beginning to think insults were a form of endearment in Sherlock's case; because he always had a softness to his features when he hurled them at John. 

They treaded carefully through the precarious walkway, until they reached the end. Literally. All of their work led to a dead end, where only cement walls, and rusty bars climbed all the way up in a line to pitch black nothing. Sherlock stuck his torch handle between his teeth, and stepped up with his long legs, onto one of the bars. He looked down at John, and jerked his head upwards a couple times-- a nonverbal indicator that he should follow. 

John shook his head in exasperation, but not wanting to be left behind, did as directed. With much more difficulty than Sherlock (damn the man and his long, spindly limbs) John managed to haul himself up onto the bars by using his upper body strength, and by jumping just enough to get his feet under him. He looked up into the darkness, Sherlock's midnight coat flapping like leathery bat wings as they climbed. 

They seemed to be climbing for a small infinity, before Sherlock suddenly stopped, and one handedly began to push on something in the ceiling. John craned his neck once he got close enough to see by the dim light, and saw that what Sherlock was pushing on, seemed to be a wooden door. A few pushes later, the door slowly creaked its way open; a chilly draft of dank air washing over them. 

Sherlock hoisted himself through the opening, and immediately reached down to aid John's way through. John mumbled his thanks, and righted himself; breathing heavily from all the physical exertion he was not used to. These past hours had been more physically taxing on him, than the entirety of the months he'd spent in London after being discharged from the Military... 

"Wuh... w-where are we?" John was able to manage through his panting. 

The air smelled crisp and clean, just like it always did after the rain and John could feel the moisture from a storm settling into his skin. He looked around, not able to discern much in the dark. 

Before Sherlock could respond, a loud and familiar toll rang out. The ringing of a bell John could never forget, even if London was no longer a part of his life. "I think that question answered itself," Sherlock chimed in, shouting over the toll of the bell. 

It sounded out 10 times, before it was silenced. John stood there, slightly dumbstruck. There was just no way... how could the underground passage way lead there of all places? "Are... are we really inside Big Ben?" 

"Yes." 

"How...?" 

Sherlock smiled coyly, obviously enjoying John's confusion. "I told you, my world is far different than your own, in more ways than you could possibly imagine. If you'll notice, time is even different down here-- we've only been traveling for three hours at the most, and considering we set off some time in the early morning, how do you suppose that it is ten o'clock in the evening?" 

John's blinked owlishly in response to that. "I'm just not going to question any thing any more..." he finally concluded. 

"Wise decision really, best for all involved in the end." Sherlock flippantly replied, sweeping his torch light to and fro to gauge where they should head from there. "Now, are you ready for your first Floating Market, Upworlder?" 

John sighed and shook his head emphatically. "No, not really, but lead the way..." 

With a slight smile, Sherlock turned away, and did just that.


End file.
